


channel ORANGE.

by honey_mcdonalds



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Coming of Age, F/M, inspired by "Thinkin Bout You" by Frank Ocean, passing of seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 04:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15964511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_mcdonalds/pseuds/honey_mcdonalds
Summary: Yes, of course, I remember, how could I forget how you feel?You know you were my first time, a new feelIt won't ever get old, not in my soul, not in my spirit, keep it aliveWe'll go down this road 'til it turns from color to black and whiteIt's hard growing up, being at peace with yourself. Even more when you can't seem to get rid of your past. Those were facts that Yoongi knew quite well.





	channel ORANGE.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the original work I did for my third year of college. Enjoy! :D

 

#  **channel ORANGE.** **  
**

 

 

 

"Hiding in the middle of our room, we watched the cycle of the sun, gazed at the stars, clutched hands and felt at home."

\- Sarah A. Chavez

 

* * *

 

 

 

# I. SUMMER •

 **i.** Summers were hot in the Western district. The sun was shining bright and hard on the shoulders of the few courageous – or maybe reckless – who dared going outside. Kids didn’t care, of course: they had waited the whole year to be able to spend those long estival days playing with their friends.

Their cries of delight and the sounds of their quick steps on the melting ground echoed into the scalding air, and even though he was lying on the cool marbled floor, just imagining them running around mindlessly was tiring him.

“How can they have so much energy?” he mumbled, barely having enough energy himself to speak.

A chuckle came from the kitchen. The sound of ice cubes clinking in glasses drew closer.

His shin was gently kicked into. “You sound like an old man, Yoongi.”

Yoongi opened his eyes and sat up just as the other boy sat down, extending a glass of cold pink lemonade to him. “My body might be young, but my soul is millenaries old, Vee.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that you’re a crumbly old man?”

“Respect your elders, young man.”

Viktor chuckled again. “Well, I’ll have you know that in this timeline, _I’m_ your elder.”

The weather was so hot that the most the electric fan could do was blowing hot air, but they didn’t mind. They were resigned, to be exact. Blown hot air was still better than still, heavy hot air.

To Yoongi, that summer was like that pink lemonade: habitual, sweet, and leaving an acid taste in its wake.

 

 **ii.** It was during the wee hour of the night. Viktor had stayed over, like most days that summer, spread across Yoongi’s bed. Which would explain why Yoongi had awoke on the floor. He glared at the sleeping form softly snoring on the double bed, and rolled his eyes. Next time, he was sleeping next to the wall.

The house was quiet, but dark was interrupted by a dim light erupting from the kitchen.

Yoongi frowned. Was it usual? He glanced at the clock on the corridor’s wall. He had never really wandered through the house at this time of the night.

Without a noise, he walked down the stairs and headed his socked feet toward the kitchen. Through the door left slightly ajar, he saw his mother poised over the kitchen table. Yoongi was about to enter the room when he noted the slight tremor of his mother’s shoulders. Suddenly a soft sob broke into the silence. She sniffed, and Yoongi saw her fill the glass her hand was tightly gripping, knuckles white, with honey coloured liquid. Even from afar, Yoongi managed to read the label. Cardhu, eighteen years of age. Probably one of his father’s favorite of his collection.

When Yoongi understood what unraveled before his eyes, he took a step back. He climbed up the stairs, quick but still as silent as the first time.

He closed his bedroom door behind him.

“Yoongi?” the slumber-laced voice of Viktor startled Yoongi. “Is that you?”

The body moved on the bed and Yoongi sat next to him. “Yeah.”

Yoongi felt Viktor’s gaze lingering on his skin. The older boy rubbed at his eyes, and muttered. “Go back to sleep, Yoonie.”

Yoongi usually hated when people gave him nicknames, no matter how cute and familiar as it was supposed to be. But that night, Yoongi hadn’t mind. And maybe, for once, he had been glad rather than annoyed by Viktor’s overbearing nightly affection. And maybe, for once, he hadn’t mind the way Viktor had hugged him while he fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

 **iii.** From the middle on the summer on, Yoongi spent more time away from his swish house at the end of the cul-the-sac, and more into Viktor’s simpler one.

They still sipped on pink lemonade and cold sweet tea all day long, but Yoongi no longer laughed carefreely to every little joke or pun Viktor made. Those boisterous laughs had been replaced with soft, quiet ones. What used to be moments of pleased appreciation of the instant now looked like frozen moment of anguish, only interrupted when the silence had dragged on for too long. It didn’t happen often, and if Viktor had noticed, he hadn’t said much.

Well, he hadn’t until it had been three days straight that Yoongi had refused to go back home.

“Why would I? I’ll come see you tomorrow anyway.”

Viktor stared at him with an unreadable expression. They were sitting in the garden, their bare feet grazing the freshly mowed lawn. Yoongi was staring at the sunlight gliding on the clear water of the neighbour’s swimming pool. More precisely, he was looking in that general direction, but he seemed lost in his thoughts.

“Yoonie, what’s going on?”

Yoongi scowled at the nickname. He lied down on his back, the grass’ humidity seeping through his t-shirt.

“Don’t call me that.” Then, after a pause: “nothing.”

“Something happened back home?”

“No, of course not. I just want to stay at yours.”

Yoongi felt a heavy gaze on him, but said nothing more. Viktor knew him enough to drop the subject: if he didn’t want to talk about it, he wouldn’t talk about it.

 

 **iv.** One day, Yoongi came at Viktor’s. Yoongi almost jumped when Viktor’s father opened the door.

“Is… Is Viktor here?”

The father stared, assessing him. Then, without looking away, he called: “Viktor! The neighbours’ son is here.” With his chin, he pointed at the stairs inside the house. “He’s upstairs.”

Yoongi barely remembers climbing up the stairs, his feet almost flying with how fast he went; he barely remembers the way he had entered the room without knocking on the door. What he remembers, though, is the way Viktor’s face crumpled, his gladness to see him turning into concern. The way he stood up and asked him what was wrong, just before Yoongi fell apart, wailing, pouring his heart out, sobs loud enough to be heard from downstairs. Later, he would be ashamed of it. But at that moment, nothing, no emotion was stronger than the crestfallen feeling clawing at his heart, keeping him from breathing properly.

Yoongi does not remember for how long it went; he just knows that at the end, he felt numb to everything, and that hours later, he woke up with a fever and a bad headache.

 

 **v.** Time passed. Summer ended. A new year rolled around.

During school days, Yoongi didn’t see Viktor much. Viktor was older anyways, he had already finished high school and was working with his father. Yoongi was in his final year.

He couldn’t wait for it to end.

He went through the motions, looking forward to the weekend on each week day. Spending lazy weekends in his room, barely seeing people, barely seeing his own family, only to be lying in his bed, once Sunday night came, thinking so much about his life that he started dissociating. _Torschlusspanik_. That’s how Germans called it. _A sense of anxiety or fear caused by the feeling that time is running out, that life’s opportunities are passing by and diminishing as one ages_.

These days, he felt like he spent his time searching for German words describing the various states of his mind.

Yoongi wished for time to pass more swiftly as much as he wished the final year exam not to come. Sometimes, he just wanted to stop existing.

 

 **vi.** Cicadas sang in the summer air. Yoongi’s framed final exam diploma was hung on the living room wall. His mother has been so proud of him when he came back with it: he had had the best grades of his school.

“Can you believe it, sweetheart?” she had exclaimed, her delicate fingers on each of his cheeks. “That’s wonderful! With that score, every school will accept you! You can even choose a school across the country if you want!”

Yoongi knew she had said the last part more for her than for him. He had simply nodded. If she wanted it, he would choose a school at the other side of the country. He would do that for her.

The Lees were having a party to celebrate their son’s successful passing. Of course, they had invited Viktor, his father and even his mother, who just came back from a business trip.

“Congratulation, Yoongi! We’re proud of you!” The woman exclaimed as soon as they arrived. “Oh my, maybe we’re standing next to a future ambassador, just like his father!”

Yoongi gave her a polite yet slightly contrite smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

His mother probably sensed his uneasiness, as she led the adults towards the living room. “Let’s have a drink. Yoongi, you’re staying with Viktor, right? You two probably have much to talk about, it’s been so long since you last saw each other.”

Yoongi nodded and guided Viktor upstairs, toward his room.

An oddly tense silence settled on the room.

After a while, Viktor settled on Yoongi’s bed, and Yoongi followed suite, as if he were the guest.

“So,” Viktor muttered, as if afraid to break the silence. “How have you been?”

Yoongi sighed, letting his head fall on Viktor’s shoulder. “I’ve been missing you, Vee,” was all he said.

“Well, I’m here now.”

 

 

# II. AUTUMN •

 **i.** Yoongi opened his eyes to stare at the stained ceiling of his lift. Only his head and knees were out of the scented lukewarm water. Even though the liquid’s temperature had decreased as the hours had gone by, the air was still hot and stuffy, the salty and flowery smells of the rests of several dissolved bath bombs merged together, and he honestly couldn’t tell whether or not he liked it. He just knew that he felt like he was suffocating, but he was too lazy to get out of the bath or open the window.

He closed his eyes, and the pictures of a blurry roof car danced into his mind.

Oh, how much he craved for a cigarette.

Someone knocked on the door. After a minute or two, they knocked again. Yoongi raised his arm from the water. The air, as heated as it was, felt too fresh on his bare, wet skin. He turned on his loudspeaker, turning the sound higher up when the door was knocked on again.

“Yoongi, seriously, I know you heard me,” came a muffled voice.

“I know you know, I just don’t wanna talk,” Yoongi said.

The door opened nonetheless, and a tall young man around Yoongi’s age entered. He shrugged at Yoongi’s glare. “You let the door unlocked. And you’ve been here for the whole afternoon. You’d better get out lest you end up looking like a raisin.”

Yoongi splashed some water at him. “Get lost,” he mumbled, but it lacked heat. He felt dizzy.

“Man, I can’t even see myself in the mirror,” the other said, ignoring the sulking man in the tub. He wiped at the glass. “Anyway, I hope there’s still hot water left, I need to wash my face. Some of us has to work to survive.”

“Don’t be a baby, you can use cold water to wash your face. And _you_ don’t even _have_ to work to survive. Hell, you don’t even have to survive, Will.”

“I’m glad Miranda was kind enough to let me borrow her shower while you acted like a broken-hearted woman in a bad RnB music video.” Yoongi rolled his eyes at that, splashed him again. “Also, excuse me if I want to live the regular life of a broke student.”

Yoongi puffed, drawing circles on the water. “Yeah, because most students have a stripper night job. Also, have you ever seen a broke stripper?” Will laughed. “Have you told your parents?” Yoongi asked.

Will chuckled again. “No, of course not. I don’t want my old man to have a heart attack! The eldest son of the eldest son of the Webber family, doing such a job?” He turned to Yoongi with a comically scandalized expression, hand over his heart. “Shocking! Utterly unbelievable!”

Yoongi had to bite down a laugh.

They stayed silent as Will did his hair and put some makeup on. When he finished, he kneeled next to the tub and fiddled in his pockets. “You know, you shouldn’t do that.” He took a cigarette out of them and lit it. He took a few puffs and handed the cigarette to Yoongi, who thanked Will and asked what he was talking about.

“Wallowing in self-despair. You shouldn’t do that,” Will said simply as he stood up. He opened the window and left it ajar. “Also, you shouldn’t try to choke yourself with hot steam and perfume. Go eat something Yoongi, and go to sleep.” He didn’t wait for an answer as he exited the bathroom, waving goodbye at him. “See you tomorrow.”

Yoongi stared after him, inhaling the acrid smell of the tobacco that engulfed everything, every pleasant smell that were present in the room moments ago. Halfway through, he stubbed his cigarette on the wet floor and got out of the bath.

 

 **ii.** Yoongi studied music at a college he had been told was quite prestigious. He hadn’t really cared, when he got in: he was given a scholarship, it was on the other side of the country. All was well.

Or so he thought.

Music was a creative art, which apparently meant that being a music major, he had to take dance and art classes as a minor. He still spent most of his time learning about music theory, great compositors and so on, but he also had four hours of art practice on Wednesday (painting and drawing), and two hours of dance practice on Tuesday and Friday. It was something that irked most of his fellow students: after dancing their afternoon away, most of them didn’t have any energy left to properly go celebrating the beginning of the weekend. Yoongi didn’t mind; he mostly spent his evenings at home, slumbering or maybe nursing a beer alone on his couch.

No, what he truly minded was having to work in a field he didn’t care for. Art classes were somewhat okay. But dance? Seriously? He wasn’t a dancer, he didn’t even _like_ dancing. But apparently, knowing how to dance was necessary to create the best music patterns, as music and dance were interwoven, two faces of the same coin.

That was why he was sitting there, on a Friday night, staring at graceful moving bodies reflected in the mirrored-wall of the room. One in particular attracted his gaze. A slender yet muscular one. As supple as it was powerful.

Charlotte.

She was a girl with a boyish charm, curly hair made of honey, ear of wheat as highlights. Each of her buck-teethed smile dimpled her face and made her warm brown eyes sparkle with mirth.

She had been the first out of the other performance arts majors to talk to Yoongi. She was the one who kept encouraging him, kept saying how much dancing potential she saw in him, as much as Yoongi personally thought that he looked like a wooden puppet whenever he tried to move his body.

“Yoongi!” She exclaimed as she trotted towards him, took his hands. “Come on! Come dance with me! Did you see the new Red Velvet choreo? You _have_ to dance it with me!” She bounced on her feet, tugging at his arms as he stared at her with what he hoped was an unimpressed look.

“Seriously, Charlotte, do you see me dancing to some K-Pop girl band dance?”

“Yes, yes I can, that’s why I’m asking you!” she chuckled.

So Yoongi got up, because for a reason he couldn’t fathom, or more like something that he would never admit, he couldn’t resist to her puppy eyes and pleading voice.

A long-suffering sigh escaped his lips. “Ok, ok. I’m coming,” he mumbled as she hauled him to the front of the class.

The class had been over for fifteen minutes, and now most of the class was gone. If Yoongi had been quick enough to flee the classroom… But something had told him to stay. Something ecstatic, frizzy and blond.

Yoongi ended up following Charlotte’s steps, a little mortified and suddenly really glad that his fellow music majors fled as soon as the class ended. There was a reason why didn’t like dancing; he didn’t _know_ how to dance. And even when he managed to do some of the moves, he was graceless and rigid like a stick.

If Yoongi had to be honest, he felt ridiculous. His movements could be more counted as flailing rather actual _dancing_ , but what he lacked in technique he made up with enthusiasm, as he started singing along the lyrics of the song with the girl.

“ _Yoongi_ ,” she exclaimed as she shimmied her shoulders. “I don’t which is worse; your dancing or your _voice_!”

Yoongi did an arm movement that almost had him smacking Charlotte face in the face – and if she asked, he would say that he hadn’t done it on purpose, _not_ _at all_. “You know you’re just jealous of my moves, lady.”

Charlotte snorted at that. They did a final spin, took the last pause and waited for the music to come to a close. Then, Charlotte burst out laughing. Now that the song was over, Yoongi could feel heat creep up his neck. He sat on the floor again and rearranged his beanie on his head, pushing it enough to hide his brow, his hair hiding his eyebrows, just like he liked.

“Yeah, yeah. Mock me if you want, you jerk.”

Charlotte chuckled one last time, and let herself fall to the floor. As she crossed her legs, she grabbed her water bottle, took a sip from it and passed it to Yoongi. He took it, but didn’t drink. Charlotte sighed and put her head on the young man’s shoulder. Her golden curls tickled his neck, and her soapy scent wafted to Yoongi’s nose.

A calming scent for Yoongi’s heart.

Not that he would ever admit it.

 

 **iii.** Yoongi still remembered the day they met.

It had been during freshman year. Yoongi had been still reeling over the fact that he would probably never go back to his suburban childhood house. His mother had moved to L-City with him, leaving his father behind.

It had been a warm day, maybe a little cold for a September month. The dorm hall had been mostly empty, most students having already moved into their rooms. As he signed the registering file, something heavy crashed behind him, quickly followed by the echoing sound of a cry.

Yoongi turned toward the sound, just to see a young girl his age messily sprawled on his luggage. Crossing her gaze, an angry flush spread across her features. She tried to stand up, but her hand slipped on the slick plastic of one of his cases. She swore under her breath.

“Sorry, I’m sorry—is it—is it yours?” she asked, when she managed to stand up.

If the phone in her hand was any indication, she had probably fell down because she hadn’t been paying attention to where she had been going. Yoongi almost felt bad for not helping her, but when she stood up and he realized she was taller than he was, he scowled. Served her right for having such a tall and lithe body. “Yeah, they’re mine.”

“Oh right, I’m—huh, sorry again,” she repeated, wringing her fingers together.

Yoongi knew he could be intimidating. That was probably why the poor woman seemed so anxious. Yoongi stared at her. It was a new year: he could not start it by being impolite.

He extended his hand. “Lee Yoongi,” he said.

She looked at his hands, and met his gaze. Suddenly, 100 000 kilowatts worth in smile glared at Yoongi. She took his hand and exclaimed “Sarfati Charlotte! Very nice to meet you!”

 

 **iv.** That shyness had long disappeared, Yoongi thought as Charlotte barged into his dorm room and ransacked his mini-fridge.

“ _Yoongi_ ,” she whined. “How come it’s so empty?”

“It’s not supposed to be filled for you, you free-loading leech.”

Charlotte stuck her tongue at him. “I don’t hear you complaining when I cook for you.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. She wasn’t completely wrong.

“That’s the least you could do, since _you’re_ the one emptying my reserves.”

“Oh, Yoongi, are you sulking?” she teased as she poked her finger into his cheek. He swatted her hand away. She poked his ribs. When Yoongi scowled at her, she grinned at him. “Will you stop sulking if I cook some carbonara pasta for you?”

“Possibly.”

Charlotte laughed her loud and unceremonious laugh. The one that made Yoongi laugh without a fail. The one that made his insides tingle, and his heart warm. The one that felt like home.

“Okay then,” she said, gently tapping his nose.

What might have been seen as clumsiness back then had also disappeared, Yoongi thought as the girl sprang in the kitchen, effortlessly graceful in all her movements, whether it was opening the cupboard or pouring some water in the pan, turning the stove on and leaning on it, smiling at Yoongi from the other side of the room.

Yoongi rolled his eyes. It was probably a dancer thing.

That, or maybe he was already too gone for her, charmed by everything she did.

 

 **v.** Sometimes, the flicker of a memory appeared in his mind. A warm summer breeze through a downpour. Too hot to wear anything more than a t-shirt, and obviously too humid to go outside uncovered. But what could you do about it when you were already outside, unassuming, before rain had started to fall?

Viktor and he had ran to Viktor’s car for shelter. They had tumbled into it, drenched and out of breath; Yoongi couldn’t tell if it had been more because of their run for the car or their fits of laughter.

As they settled, the celeste water fell down with a vengeance, echoing like thick needle on the hood of the car.

 

 **vi.** Yoongi always cut that train of thought before it when too far. As much as he was used to musing over the past and the what-might-have-beens, he _really_ didn’t want to think about the possible outcomes that momentous day could have led to.

 

 

# III. WINTER •

 **i.** Winding was blowing hard through the trees’ foliage, leaves twirling in the air, some of them slapping Yoongi and Charlotte in the face.

“God, I hate this weather,” she mumbled as she pushed her beanie further down on her head.

Yoongi snorted. “You’re the one who wanted to go practice on a _Saturday_ , when we could have been sleeping our day away.” He stared pointedly at her. He had been sleeping, _dreaming_ even, when he had been started into wakefulness by enthusiastic knocking at his door.

Charlotte had wanted to practice for a choreography assignment she had been given, and she wanted some “outsider’s point of view”. Yoongi had glared daggers at her, hoping that she would get the message he was trying to convey, but she had merely shrugged and said: “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee just as you like, latte, with whipped cream and lot of sugar. And a chocolate and raspberry muffin.” Then, Charlotte had given him a pretend sheepish smile that barely hid her cheekiness. “Besides, I know you wouldn’t say no to me. I’m your kryptonite, aren’t I?”

 _You don’t know how right you are_ , he had thought, but he had still rolled his eyes heavenward for good measure.

Now they were coming back from the studio, after Yoongi had assured Charlotte that everything was perfect in her choreography. That was when he got the call.

It had been a week or so since he had last heard the voice of his mother. But it seemed a little hoarser, a little more stifled than what he remembered.

“Yes, hello Mom? Are you alright?”

“Oh sweetheart, sweetheart.” She said, no, _whimpered_. “Yoonie, I’m sorry for saying that, but I think you ought to know—please sit down.”

“Huh…” Yoongi frowned. He glanced at Charlotte who raised her eyebrows at him questioningly, but he just shrugged as an answer, not knowing any more than she did. “Okay mom, I’m sitting,” he said as he did so on a nearby stone bench.

“Yoonie… Sorry for being blunt, but—Viktor’s at the hospital. He passed out the other day and—he’s sick, Yoonie. Very sick. I’m sorry.”

 

 **ii.** Yoongi didn’t remember the rest of the conversation, or even when he hung up. He didn’t remember what Charlotte told him, or even how he managed to get home. He was on autopilot, shoving some random articles of clothing in his bag, Charlotte fidgeting nervously behind him.

“Yoongi…” she called.

“I have to go,” he muttered.

Charlotte eyed his coming and going around the dorm room. “Then I’m coming with you.”

Yoongi halted. “What are you talking about.” The words did not even sound like a question: Yoongi sounded as out of it as he looked.

“I said I’m coming with you. You’re _not_ driving all your way back home alone.” Yoongi blinked at her. She arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “That’s what you were going to do, didn’t you?”

Yoongi resumed his putting away his belongings, albeit less franticly. “I don’t need you to come with me.”

“You might not _want_ me to come, but you need it. Yoongi, look,” she pleaded as she grasped his hands. Yoongi looked down to her hands, tanner than his, softer than his. “Whatever is happening, it’s unsettling. I… We’ve known each other for like… Three years? I mean, I don’t know about you, but I consider you like a close friend, and I won’t less a close friend drive in such a distress state back home. Especially to the other side of country. I mean, I know our country isn’t that big, but, you know. And won’t you tell me what happened?”

Yoongi stared at Charlotte again, and looked back at his bag. “Go pack your things, if you wanna come.”

Charlotte nodded and exited the room.

 

 **iii.** The ride back to the suburbs was long and its atmosphere was quite heavy. It was thirty minutes into the ride when Yoongi started talking, when Charlotte asked him about where they were actually going.

“I used to live in the Northern suburbs with my parents.”

“The Northern suburbs?” Charlotte exclaimed. “Aren’t those the old run-down suburbs that got renovated for super posh people?! Aren’t those, like, _really_ expensive?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, a little embarrassed. “Yeah, those ones—” Then he took a double-take. “Wait how do you know?”

“Oh I’ve got some family over there but—oh my god you’re a bourgeois!”

“No I’m—I’m _not_ a bourgeois.”

“You come from the Northern suburbs, dude!”

“From the last limit of the Northern suburbs. We were probably the less rich people of the district.”

“And probably—”

“Yeah, okay, probably the richest of the nearby Western district—look, that’s not the point, okay?” He said as he tried to muffle a chuckle. He glanced at Charlotte who was smirking playfully at him. Yoongi smiled back. “I… My childhood best friend lived in the next district. We were neighbours. He was like… I don’t know. He was kind of my closest friend. When I was younger, I saw him as some kind of big brother.”

The fields stretched toward the horizon. Purple lavender, bright yellow colza flowers, brown earth. Birds of prey flying high in the sky, possibly hunting for mice and shrews roaming on the ground.

“And then?” Charlotte asked quietly.

Yoongi sighed and tightened his grip on the wheel. “And then, it changed.” Yoongi felt her stare on him, but she didn’t question any further. That was another reason why he liked Charlotte; she knew when to try to break his walls down, and when not to push too much.

She sighed and folded her legs, circling them with one arm while the other rested on the window. “What happened to him?”

His gaze flickered toward her.

“Don’t give me that look, I’m not an idiot. Of course it’s about him, isn’t it? What happened to him?”

The dread and fear he had tried to swallow down came back, clawing at his heart and throat.

“My Mom—my Mom told me that—” He took a sharp intake of breath. Uselessly trying to calm himself. “I don’t know Charlotte. Apparently—he _passed out_ , and—he’s in the hospital now.” He choked on a sob he didn’t know he was holding. “God, I don’t—I think his father had a heart attack when we were still young. It’s…” Yoongi’s vision was getting blurry.

“Yoonie—” The young man sobbed again. That was how Viktor used to call him and—when was the last time he saw him? When was the last time he had _talked_ to him, or even heard his voice? What was his last words to him—what if he had said something terrible and—

“Yoonie, stop the car, right now.”

Yoongi did so. Charlotte unbuckled her seatbelt, then his, and hugged him tight. That was when the tears finally streamed fully, and the sobs shook his body into hiccups. Charlotte rubbed his back soothingly as she whispered sweet nothings into his ears.

 

 **iv.** When they arrived, Yoongi woke up to the slight pushing of Charlotte on his shoulder.

“We’re here,” she said as she turned off the GPS.

Yoongi rubbed at his eyes. They were parked in front of the main building of Northwest hospital. Everything came back to Yoongi. He bit his lips.

“I can’t—I can’t go.”

Charlotte stared at him with wide eyes. “What do you mean, you _can’t_?” she said in a surprised, yet not reproachful tone. “Yoonie, we drove all the way here—you _have_ to see him, you have to. How long since you last saw him, huh? And now—now might be—” She interrupted herself, her lips thinning as she realized the tactlessness of her budding sentence. She stroked his sweater-clad arm. “Yoonie, you have to go see him. If you were waiting for a sign… I mean, now might be the right time. If you don’t go now, you might regret it.”

 

 **v.** Yoongi can’t remember the walk to the hall desk, what he said to the nurse there, how he got her to tell him the number of Viktor’s room even though he is not part of his family. He couldn’t for the life of him remember anything prior to opening the door of the patient’s room and sitting on a chair next to the bed.

 

 **vi.** The sounds of static echoed through the room, along with the rhythmic beeps of the various monitors surrounding Viktor. Yoongi’s head hung above the still body, eyes wet and burning.

“Vee…”

Yoongi’s muttering was the only sign of life in the room.

Viktor’s eyes stared at the ceiling, unfocused. He breathed, in and out, and yet, he looked more like a corpse than anything else. His lashes fluttered, and it seemed like he finally came back into the realm of the living.

“Yoongi…?” His voice was low and hoarse, for he didn’t use it much these days.

Yoongi blinked some tears away and gently took the other man’s hand in his own. “Vee, I’m here.”

Viktor took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. “You shouldn’t… be here,” he said as he gripped Yoongi’s hand tightly – as tightly as he could in his state.

“How can you say that, Vee?”

A cough fit made the whole of his frail body tremble, and Yoongi almost reached for the emergency button when Viktor stopped him, gripping his hand even tighter. When he caught Yoongi’s gaze, he shook his head.

Yoongi sat back down.

Silence has fell again on the room. The pained sighs overwhelmed the regular noise of the devices, engulfed Yoongi with sorrow and depthless sadness. He couldn’t take it anymore. Yoongi stared at the nightly void that the room window had to offer, its darkness smothered by the dull light of the suburbs. Viktor’s hand lost his grip as he lost himself to sleep, breathing one last whisper:

“You shouldn’t have come here, Yoongi.”

 

 **vii.** After that, Yoongi regularly came back to Northwest hospital, daily, if he could. Charlotte always went with him, and always took the wheel on the way back, because Yoongi was always too distressed to drive.

 

 **viii.** “Yoongi, why do you keep coming back?” Viktor asked, and that was the same question Charlotte had asked him earlier that week, to which he had merely hold a snapping remark and shrugged.

Viktor barely looked better. Sure, he seemed a little less out of it, but his apparent fatigue hadn’t disappeared. He looked paler than in Yoongi’s memories.

Yoongi ignored the question. “Does your father come?”

Viktor frowned, his gaze going unfocused for a short moment. “He comes. Of course he comes, Yoonie,” he murmured, a small reassuring smile on his lips. It was ripped away by a rattling cough fit, making him sit up. Yoongi rubbed at his back with one hand while the other handed him a plastic cup of water. Whenever Viktor made any brisk movement, Yoongi was afraid that he would rip off the IV cords and other tubes connected to his body and hurt himself.

Settling down, Viktor laid back down on his bed.

“Sorry about that,” he said. Yoongi patted his hand. He couldn’t look at him in this eye, or else, he knew he would cry. Yet, a soft chuckle made him turn his head. “You turned soft,” Viktor said.

“Why do you say that?”

Viktor shook his head. “It feels like it. You’ve changed, I can feel that too. It was good for you, going to L-City.”

“I don’t know…” Yoongi whispered. He nibbled at his nails. “I—I guess I never told you, but. I’m sorry I stopped… I’m sorry we lost touch. I didn’t mean to. I don’t want you to feel like I was ignoring you or anything.”

Viktor threaded his fingers with Yoongi’s. Blood rushed into Yoongi’s ears and for a moment, it was all he could hear. He fought the urge to tear his hand away from Viktor’s grip. Viktor didn’t seem to notice his predicament.

“You speak a lot. It’s been a while since I last hear you say so much.”

His blush crept further up his neck.

“I can speak.”

Viktor laughed, and stopped when it started hurting too much. “Of course you _can_ , doesn’t mean you do, though.”

Yoongi gritted his teeth in embarrassment, but remained quiet. They stayed so for a few minutes, the regular beeping of the machine the only witness of time passing.

“Yoongi, I’ve been wondering…”

Yoongi looked back to the man in the bed, with his hair so black against his sickly pale skin, hollow cheeks, heterochromatic washed-up blue and brown eyes staring back.

“What happened that day? You know? The last day of our last summer together?”

Yoongi took back his hand.

“What do you mean, what happened?”

Viktor was staring at the spot where their hands had been intertwined instants ago, then to Yoongi’s face, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You cried, that day. You never told me why.”

“It was the rain on my face.”

Viktor snorted and swatted as his knee, weekly, but with intent. “I’m ill, Yoonie, not an idiot. And I don’t have Alzheimer either, I know what I saw. You were sobbing.”

“Shut up,” Yoongi mumbled, his face hidden in his hands.

 

 **viii.** Yoongi didn’t sleep well that night. He tossed and turned, jarring thoughts marring his mind.

Should he tell Viktor? Charlotte was right. Maybe….

He hated to think about it, but… It might have been his last chance to come clean to Viktor.

 

 **ix.** “Can I come see him?” Charlotte asked the next time they go.

She was beautiful. The sunrays made a golden crown of her hair. Her brow was crinkled in hesitance that she had maybe overstep his boundaries.

She had not, but she was part of Yoongi’s present, and he didn’t want it to collide with his past. First, he needed closure.

That was when Yoongi made a decision.

“No, I’d rather… Not now.”

Charlotte nodded, and even though she was hiding it, Yoongi perceived her disappointment. He took one of her soft hand, squeezed it, and smiled.

“It’s not against you; I promise you’ll meet him. I… I actually want you to,” he said, realizing at the same time that he had meant those words.

Charlotte gave him an indulgent grin. “Thank you, Yoongi.”

 

 **x.** When Yoongi arrived, Viktor was sitting on the bed and looking at something through the window. Not _staring_ , but _looking_ : that was something new. It made Yoongi smile.

“Hey, Viktor.”

Viktor turned his head and beamed at him. “Yoonie! You’re back.”

“Of course,” Yoongi said as he sat back at his usual spot.

They did some small talk. Viktor’s eyes shone with mirth; he knew that Yoongi hated small talk, so much that if he ever had to resort to it, it only meant that he was stalling for the inevitable. And with the way Yoongi was fidgeting, he knew that Viktor had a feeling about what he was about to say.

“You have something to tell me, don’t you?” he asked after a silence that lasted few seconds too long.

Yoongi stayed quiet, but nodded.

“About the last day of our last summer together?”

Yoongi bit his cheek, but nodded again.

“I’m all ears, then.”

Silence stretched for a few seconds, turning into a few minutes. Then, Yoongi tightened his fists and took a deep breath.

“Four summers ago, I fell in love with you.”

 

 

# IV. SPRING •

 **i.** Yoongi only let go of Charlotte’s hand to tighten her scarf around her neck. “You’re gonna catch a cold,” he mumbled.

Charlotte chuckled. “You act like a heartless tough guy, but you’re such a softie.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it’s mostly because if you get sick, _I’m_ the one who will have to take care of you, and god knows how insufferable you are when you’re sick. I mean, you’re already annoying enough when you’re well, but—“

“Shut up or you’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

Yoongi snorted and took her hand back. She glanced at him and squeezed his hand.

“You’re sure it’s okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“But last time you were there—”

“It was his funeral, I know Charlie. I…” He paused, unsure of what to say.

Three months since Viktor died. Four since Yoongi told him the truth about his feelings for him. He had managed not to cry that day. Well, not too much. As always, Viktor had been understanding, rubbing his back and arms, telling him it was alright, that he had kind of figured that out before Yoongi had told him. Viktor had thanked him, then, for being honest, for coming clean to him, when Yoongi could have just waited for death to come and take Viktor without him ever having to say anything.

Deep down, Yoongi knew he would have told him anyway, even if it had been on his dying breath, he would have told him. He was sure of it now.

He looked at Charlotte. His beautiful Charlotte, her curls and her smiles and her sunshine-like aura. When Viktor had seen Charlotte for the first time, he had looked between them, and with a smile, had dubbed them as “rainbow children”. Charlotte had laughed, and Yoongi hadn’t quite understood, but now he did: because Charlotte was the sun to his rain.

Yoongi rolled his eyes heavenward, hoping that Viktor was seeing him. _You’ve always been such a sap_ , he thought.

Charlotte tugged at his sleeve to bring him back to reality. He glanced at her, took a deep breath.

“I’m fine, he said.”

 

 **ii.** On their way back from the cemetery, after paying their respect and adorning the marble tomb with a fresh and colourful bouquet, Yoongi caught a glimpse of vibrant green on the immaculate whiteness of the late March snow.

As they drank hot chocolate to shake off the last shreds of coldness clinging to their bodies, Yoongi remembered the name of that flower.

A snow piercer.

 

 **iii.** Snow melted on the ground, spring bloomed into the trees. Yoongi and Charlotte stayed together, having find their solace, their haven, in each other.

_Gemütlichkeit: a situation that induces a cheerful mood, peace of mind, with connotation of belonging and social acceptance, coziness and unhurry._

Yoongi wanted to invent his own word too: _Vergangenheitseelenfriede._ Or the peace of mind that comes from the acceptance of one’s past.

All was well.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed it! :)


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